


Quid Pro Quo

by sudipal



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cabinlock, Episode: s01e02 Boston, Gen, takes place in 2008 fyi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudipal/pseuds/sudipal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after the events of Cabin Pressure 1x02 “Boston”, Martin needs help extricating himself from a sticky situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own neither Cabin Pressure, Sherlock, nor any of their characters. All rights belong to their respective owners.

Martin sat fidgeting in his chair. Across the table from him, two large and stoic American men stared at him. They had already spent an hour together, Martin trying to explain that, no, he did not have a bomb, and he was not threatening anyone, nor did he have any ill-feelings towards the United States of America, nor, more specifically the good people of Boston.

“Please,” Martin begged. “Just one phone call and I can clear up this whole misunderstanding. One call.” He had seen enough American films to know his rights.

The two interrogators looked at each other for a moment, and then turned back to Martin. “Fine,” said the one on the left, the larger of the pair. “You can use the phone on the wall. And no funny business! We’ll be listening.”

“Of- of course not,” Martin stammered. He stood up on shaky legs and walked over to the phone, which hung on the wall by the only door to the cold, gray room.

He sighed audibly. There was only one person who could help him at this point. He dialed the number, and after a few rings, a male voice picked up on the other end. “Hello?”

“It’s Martin,” the pilot explained. “Look, I’ve got myself into a bit of trouble. I’m being detained at an airport in Boston. It’s all some huge misunderstanding; they think I might be some sort of terrorist.”

Martin stopped speaking, and there was a brief pause. Finally, the other voice said, “And you want me to help you?”

“Yes!”

“You’ve never wanted my help before,” said the other man.

“Well, I’m obviously a little over my head here,” Martin told him. “Please! I am truly begging you.”

“All right,” he responded. “But I’ll expect something in return.”

“I’m hardly in a position to negotiate,” said Martin.

“Then we have a deal,” the man said. “Call me when you return to England.”

Martin hung up the phone, and meekly turned to sit back in the chair he had previously occupied. The two men resumed asking him more questions about the events which led him to this dire circumstance. Just as Martin thought he was about to go mental (which most likely would have only made the situation worse), the phone on the wall buzzed. The burly man who had allowed him to make his call before, left his chair pick up the same phone, listening intently to a mysterious voice on the other end, most likely his supervisor. After a few moments, the interrogator returned to whisper something to his colleague, and, finally, turned to Martin. “You’ve been cleared. You’re free to leave.”

“Really?” asked Martin, unsure.

“Yes,” said the interrogator. “But be more careful about what you say in the future. Terrorism is not a laughing matter.”

“No,” replied Martin, gathering himself together. “It won’t happen again; believe me.”

– 

Martin climbed the long flight of stairs to his small and cramped attic bedsit. He immediately collapsed on his bed from exhaustion after a long day of nearly avoiding a visit to Guantanamo Bay. He fell into a fitful sleep.

He woke up a few hours later with a crick in his neck. He stumbled his way to the loo, and, when he returned, decided he was in dire need of a cup of coffee.

When he was more fully awake, he recalled the events from the previous day. Damn! He had a phone call to make. One he desperately dreaded having to make. But he promised. His only consolation was that it was only six a.m. on a Saturday, so there was a real possibility of disturbing the other man from his beauty rest.

“Ah, Martin. I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“Skip with the pleasantries, Mycroft,” he said, bitterly. “What do you you want me to do for you?”

“You act like I’m hiring you to assassinate someone,” Mycroft calmly replied. He paused, and Martin waited impatiently during the silent moment. “It’s Sherlock,” he finally said, as though he were sighing the name. “I worry about him, as I know you do, too. I was hoping you could make a trip out to London to see how he’s doing?”

“You want me to spy on my own brother?” Martin responded.

“ _Our_ brother,” Mycroft corrected. “And not spy... Just a bit of an impromptu family reunion.”

“Yes, and then report everything back to you.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft told him.

“Why don’t you just confront him yourself?” Martin asked.

“He won’t talk to me,” Mycroft admitted.

“I wonder why...” he muttered.

“Martin,” Mycroft said his name sternly. “I think something may actually be wrong with him.” Martin, having known his older brother for so many years, was able to recognize the silent plea in his voice. It honestly scared him enough to drop his harsh attitude.

“He knows I’m keeping an eye out on him,” Mycroft explained. “So he’s being careful. I can’t get close. But you can.”

Martin sighed. Did other family’s have such complicated relationships? “Fine,” he said. “For Sherlock’s sake.”

“I knew you would see it my way.”

“Piss off, Mycroft!” And Martin regretted that fact that you couldn’t slam a mobile phone when ending a call.

Martin rubbed his hands over his face. He hated when Mycroft and Sherlock forced him in the middle of their childish feuds. Mycroft was always so controlling, and could never truly understand that Martin and Sherlock both wanted to carve out their own paths without his help. It also didn’t help that Mycroft took their father’s side when- Martin didn’t want to go down that train of thought at the moment; it would just make him angrier. For now, he chose to focus on his worry over Sherlock. He wondered what Mycroft suspected?

Martin looked at his clock. He knew Carolyn hadn’t booked any upcoming flights for another week. If he started to get ready now, he could probably make it to London by noon. Sherlock could treat him to lunch.

It was decided.

After all, he did promise.


End file.
